fic: love, lust, and paradise
doctor who. eleven/amy. non-timelord 1920s au. ~700 words. There’s mischief on his face, the governor mistakes it for good cheer; his wife likes Amy’s dress.
notes: I am attempting to start writing again. This was written in half an hour and is rather short but is for S.
“Let’s go somewhere new.” His whisper traces the line of her neck, slips into her ear.
There’s a party and there’s music and there’s dancing. She was dancing. She’s always dancing. Someone laughs and the rooms bends the sound, makes it echo and seem more honest than it is.
His hand is on her hip and she goes with him. Of course she goes with him.
-
“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
It slips off his tongue like liquor from a bottle; she kisses his lips.
“And why’d you do that?”
“Because you wanted me to.”
His laugh bends then shatters against her skin.
-
On the street he takes her hand and spins her to a song no one else can hear. The streetlights flicker, people yell, her heels click against the pavement.
“Amelia Pond,” he whispers, only for her, his forehead pressed against hers, her hair a curtain around them. “Amelia Pond, like a name out of a fairytale.”
He’s impossibly old. He’s younger than she is. He’s laughing like no one else does, like a child, his shoulders shaking with the force of it.
She takes his hand; they run through the streets.
-
“Where are we going?”
“What would you like to see?”
“Everything. And more.”
-
They call him The Doctor. The bulls call him the Doctor. People in the street whisper it like a prayer.
They call him the Doctor.
It’s as close to a name as he gets.
-
In the mornings they sleep in hotels.
(“Ritzy,” she says.
“Only the best for Amy Pond.”)
At night they dance, rich men’s parties and speakeasies where everyone knows him but no one dares more than smile in their direction.
His hand is always in hers, he’s always whispering, saying something new, something she doesn’t know, something that makes her laugh. At night there are new dresses, and her feet don’t touch the floor as she dances, sometimes with him, sometimes with others, his eyes on her and when she laughs he echoes.
During the day he robs banks.
(“We rob banks.”
“Only because you won’t stay when you’re told.”
“You wouldn’t like it if I did.”)
-
She’s got a good head, you know. She’s smart. She knows this isn’t going to last. He’ll find something new; he’ll change his mind; he’ll get bored.
“Not of you, mad, impossible Amy Pond. Never of you.”
-
Her skirt slips up as she picks up her purse, the guard’s attention wavers, is lost.
He walks through the door, spins the lock on the safe, meets her out front with a kiss to the cheek.
-
“I’ve never been to a party like this.”
“I’ll tell you a secret-neither have I.” There’s mischief on his face, the governor mistakes it for good cheer; his wife likes Amy’s dress.
-
Later the papers will say, “what a scam!” Will say he seemed like a proper English gentleman and no one could have seen it coming.
She’ll read the part where they talk about her beauty, her hair aloud and his hand will slip up her thigh as the sunlight streams in through the curtains.
“Well at least they got that bit right.”
-
Sometimes it’s like they’re playing a game. Sometimes it’s like she’s winning.
He’s always there, or she always follows. His hand is around hers; his mouth tastes of sugar, a hint of sharpness like gin and cigarette smoke.
There are dresses and furs and diamonds. She flips a hat onto his head, watches him twist it to one side.
“Now I look rakish.” She tugs on the bowtie.
“Rakish. Right.”
She’d stay just for the fun.
-
Before she took his hand there was a month of parties. He was there, he watched her kiss men, sometimes women. Watched her dance and laugh and drink. She saw him watching.
She saw him watching but didn’t go to him.
He came to her.
Sometimes it’s like she’s winning.
-
“If you’d like,” he coughs. “If you want, we could do something else.”
She closes the clasps on a yellow dress.
“What for?”
His smile folds against her lips.
notes: I am attempting to start writing again. This was written in half an hour and is rather short but is for S.
“Let’s go somewhere new.” His whisper traces the line of her neck, slips into her ear.
There’s a party and there’s music and there’s dancing. She was dancing. She’s always dancing. Someone laughs and the rooms bends the sound, makes it echo and seem more honest than it is.
His hand is on her hip and she goes with him. Of course she goes with him.
-
“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
It slips off his tongue like liquor from a bottle; she kisses his lips.
“And why’d you do that?”
“Because you wanted me to.”
His laugh bends then shatters against her skin.
-
On the street he takes her hand and spins her to a song no one else can hear. The streetlights flicker, people yell, her heels click against the pavement.
“Amelia Pond,” he whispers, only for her, his forehead pressed against hers, her hair a curtain around them. “Amelia Pond, like a name out of a fairytale.”
He’s impossibly old. He’s younger than she is. He’s laughing like no one else does, like a child, his shoulders shaking with the force of it.
She takes his hand; they run through the streets.
-
“Where are we going?”
“What would you like to see?”
“Everything. And more.”
-
They call him The Doctor. The bulls call him the Doctor. People in the street whisper it like a prayer.
They call him the Doctor.
It’s as close to a name as he gets.
-
In the mornings they sleep in hotels.
(“Ritzy,” she says.
“Only the best for Amy Pond.”)
At night they dance, rich men’s parties and speakeasies where everyone knows him but no one dares more than smile in their direction.
His hand is always in hers, he’s always whispering, saying something new, something she doesn’t know, something that makes her laugh. At night there are new dresses, and her feet don’t touch the floor as she dances, sometimes with him, sometimes with others, his eyes on her and when she laughs he echoes.
During the day he robs banks.
(“We rob banks.”
“Only because you won’t stay when you’re told.”
“You wouldn’t like it if I did.”)
-
She’s got a good head, you know. She’s smart. She knows this isn’t going to last. He’ll find something new; he’ll change his mind; he’ll get bored.
“Not of you, mad, impossible Amy Pond. Never of you.”
-
Her skirt slips up as she picks up her purse, the guard’s attention wavers, is lost.
He walks through the door, spins the lock on the safe, meets her out front with a kiss to the cheek.
-
“I’ve never been to a party like this.”
“I’ll tell you a secret-neither have I.” There’s mischief on his face, the governor mistakes it for good cheer; his wife likes Amy’s dress.
-
Later the papers will say, “what a scam!” Will say he seemed like a proper English gentleman and no one could have seen it coming.
She’ll read the part where they talk about her beauty, her hair aloud and his hand will slip up her thigh as the sunlight streams in through the curtains.
“Well at least they got that bit right.”
-
Sometimes it’s like they’re playing a game. Sometimes it’s like she’s winning.
He’s always there, or she always follows. His hand is around hers; his mouth tastes of sugar, a hint of sharpness like gin and cigarette smoke.
There are dresses and furs and diamonds. She flips a hat onto his head, watches him twist it to one side.
“Now I look rakish.” She tugs on the bowtie.
“Rakish. Right.”
She’d stay just for the fun.
-
Before she took his hand there was a month of parties. He was there, he watched her kiss men, sometimes women. Watched her dance and laugh and drink. She saw him watching.
She saw him watching but didn’t go to him.
He came to her.
Sometimes it’s like she’s winning.
-
“If you’d like,” he coughs. “If you want, we could do something else.”
She closes the clasps on a yellow dress.
“What for?”
His smile folds against her lips.